


We're Less Than Half as Close as I Want to Be

by ItsADrizzit



Series: Deleted Scenes [2]
Category: Football RPF
Genre: Christmas, Established Relationship, Feelings, Gift Giving, Holidays, M/M, Sinterklaas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-06
Updated: 2017-12-06
Packaged: 2019-02-11 05:37:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12928626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ItsADrizzit/pseuds/ItsADrizzit
Summary: Christian mails Vincent a gift. Vincent has no idea why or what it's supposed to mean.“Sorry it got sort of mixed up and complicated.”“It wouldn’t be us if it didn’t.”This work is part of a series of related works, but each can be read as a stand-alone story.





	We're Less Than Half as Close as I Want to Be

**Author's Note:**

> _Sinterklaas_ is a Dutch holiday. It's mostly for kids, but adults still often get together with friends and have a meal, etc. it has A LOT of problematic traditions surrounding it that I won't even begin to defend, but it's always had a special place in my heart and since one of the traditions of _Sinterklass_ is making things, I thought I'd make something for all of you.
> 
> If you want to learn more about the holiday (and the problematic BS associated with it), please enjoy [ this blog post](https://sciphie.wordpress.com/2013/12/16/the-best-and-worst-of-sinterklaas/) (CW for racism, slavery, and racist practices)
> 
> To read more about the traditions (including the food traditions that I tried very hard to work in, but couldn't manage), see [this article](https://www.thespruce.com/the-story-of-sinterklaas-1128632).
> 
> Title is from Relient K - I Celebrate The Day
> 
> Handwaving at Turkish and at Istanbul's EVERYTHING. Sorry if it's glaringly wrong. LMK and I'll correct it.
> 
> Unbetaed. All abuses of all three of these languages are my own.

The last light of day was painting the Istanbul sky in shades of deep magenta that shifted into purple and navy as Vincent climbed from the car and headed toward the main entrance of his flat. Another day of training over, the team preparing for an important run of four games in sixteen days, hoping to pick up some much needed points to move them ahead of their rival Istanbul teams in the table.

A win at the weekend had propelled them from sixth to third, but they still sat four points out of the lead and three points from Champions League qualification. Vincent hadn’t come to Fenerbahce to win trophies—he’d come because he’d run out of options—but he had to admit that the idea of scoring goals and lifting trophies for once in his life had some appeal.

He made a point of stopping by the concierge desk on the main floor of his building before heading up the stairs to his flat. He’d struck up a friendship of sorts with Orhan, a tall man in his early thirties with dark hair, wide eyes, and an easy smile. Since Vincent had arrived, Orhan had gone out of his way to help Vincent navigate the city and help him find whatever he needed. Vincent knew it was his job, but none of the other staff at the concierge desk had taken the time to ask after his day or check on whether he had everything he needed or inquire about Vincent’s life in London or Amsterdam.

Today, as Vincent rounded the corner into the main floor of the building, Orhan greeted him with a wide smile.

“ _Hoş geldiniz_ , Vincent. How are you today?”

“ _Hoş bulduk_ ,” Vincent responded in turn. One of the few key phrases of Turkish he’d picked up during his time here. He was by no means fluent, but he’d been making an effort to learn from his teammates. He’d even installed a few translation and language learning apps on his phone.

“The weather is turning colder,” Vincent said. “I miss the days of training in the warm sunshine. Still, I’m working hard. I’m happy to be home where I can sit and relax after a long day.”

It wasn’t strictly a lie. Vincent was looking forward to a night of relaxation. They’d been putting in extra training sessions in preparation for the upcoming matches and Vincent dragged himself home every night wanting nothing more than to collapse onto the sofa and scroll through his social media while the television chattered at him in the background. His biggest problem was that the sofa in question wasn’t his sofa, and that he had to do all those things in his flat by himself instead of curled up in the warmth of another person.

Still, he’d—well, he wouldn’t say gotten used to this life, but he’d at least settled into the routine. Wake in the morning to the daylight streaming in through his small windows.

If he had time before training, he’d wander through his neigbourhood for a while, stopping into his favourite cafe for a coffee—rich and thick and frothy, and he loved it that way—or _cay_ with its sugar sweetness and pungent aroma. He’d stop in at the roadside shops and buy dried figs and honey and lemons and sometimes a pomegranate or two, carefully loading them into his backpack for later. At that time of the morning, the streets filled with people. Men huddled  together in groups at the small cafes. Housewives rushing about their errands or holding the hands of small children as they walked along the sidewalks.

At the training centre, he threw himself into sprints and weightlifting and just playing football. Smiles and laughs with his teammates as they gathered together for meals and tried to outdo one another on the training pitch.

Vincent wouldn’t say he’d fallen easily into life at his new club, but he’d learned how to get on there and it felt good to be playing again. To be depended on. To score goals and create chances. He missed Tottenham and life with his Spurs teammates—and Christian, of course—but the first time he’d seen his name in the starting eleven; had stood in the tunnel before a match and walked out to the wall of sound brought down by the _Şükrü Saracoğlu_ crowd, it felt like some of the weight of the past year had been lifted off his shoulders and he could breathe again.

Grass beneath his boots. Ball at his feet. Crowd screaming for him to score. The first time he’d put a ball in the back of the net and been engulfed by a sea of navy and yellow, wrapped into the arms of his teammates, Vincent had felt more alive than he had since leaving AZ fourteen months prior.

“You have mail today,” Orhan said, “Very exciting. A package for you from England.”

Vincent jerked his head up. “England?”

“Yes,” Orhan said. “It arrived by courier service this afternoon. Please wait while I retrieve it for you.”

He disappeared into a small room behind the desk. Presumably where they kept the mail that was too large to fit into the small slots. Vincent wouldn’t know. He’d never received a package here. Three months in Istanbul and all he ever got in the mail were utility bills and the catalogues and advertisements that seem to follow you wherever you go.

The first time he’d received real mail and it was a package from, of all places, England.

Orhan emerged with a handful of colourful advertisements and the parcel—a small, white box a bit larger than a sheet of A4 paper with a courier company logo printed on the side.

Vincent took the box from him, along with the advertisements, which he’d just throw in the bin when he got upstairs, and turned the package over until he could see the label. His face shifted into a wide grin as he saw the sender’s name and address printed across the label.

He looked up from the package. “Thanks for this. I…I really appreciate it. I’ll…I hope you have a good evening, Orhan. I’ll speak with you tomorrow, I hope.”

Orhan gave him a nod and returned the smile. “This package, it is good news then?”

“Yes. Very good.”

“Then I am glad. Have a good evening, Vincent.”

“Yes, Orhan, thank you,” Vincent said as he stepped away from the desk and toward the stairs. “ _Hoşca kalın_.”

“ _Güle güle_ , my friend,” Orhan called after him.

 

  

Vincent took the stairs up to his flat two at a time. He lived on the fourth floor, and ordinarily climbing the steps after a long day of training left the tops of his legs screaming in protest, but today he hardly noticed.

He tucked the box under his arm as he fumbled the key into the lock and shoved the door open. Once inside his flat, he dropped the advertisements onto the small table just inside the door and carried the box with him to the sofa.

The clock on the wall read half seven, which meant Christian would still be at training, but Vincent slid his phone from the pocket of his backpack and sent him a message anyway.

‘ _I got your package. Nice to come home to real mail for once._ ’

Startled when, a few seconds later, his phone buzzed with a message in return.

‘ _Don’t open it yet. I want to see your face when you do_.’

Don’t open it? The first real mail he’s gotten in weeks and it’s a parcel from Christian that he’s not supposed to open for hours. What is he meant to do, sit here and flip through the television while the package stares over at him from the other side of the sofa?

‘ _When will you be home?_ ’ Vincent asked.

‘ _I’ll call you as soon as I can_.’

 

  

Vincent stared across the harbour—the city casting the water in twinkling lights. Blue and white lit ferryboats coming and going across the channel, carrying passengers from one side of the city to the other.

He’d been too restless sitting around waiting for Christian to call, so he’d ventured out into the city for a bit. Istanbul after dark was filled with lights and the buzz of music and people—spilling out of restaurants and cafes and shops that lined the streets.

He closed his eyes and listened to the murmur of the water slapping against the rocks and broken concrete that spilled out into the harbour. Behind him, the thrum of cars along the roadway. This city equal parts familiar and strange. Still not a place he belonged or a place he would call home, but a place where he’d managed, once again, to carve out a space for himself, however small.

To his right, the Haydarpasa train station loomed golden against the inky sky. A beautiful building—all stone and towers and arches. Vincent had been surprised to learn it was a train station and not some kind of palace. He’d grown to love the building and often spent many restless nights down here beside the water, eyes turned to the northwest. Towards his home in Brabant. Towards Amsterdam. Towards London. Three thousand kilometers away. An entire continent between him and everything he loved.

His phone buzzed in his pocket and he jumped back, startled at the sensation. He slid it out to see the incoming FaceTime from Christian. He didn’t have his headphones, just the phone speaker, but he didn’t want to run the risk of missing Christian if he ignored the call.

“ _Christiaan_ , _hallo_ ” he said, squinting against the harsh white light of the screen in the darkness.

“Vincent? Where are you?” Christian’s Dutch soft around the edges.

“Down by the pier,” he said. “I come down here sometimes when I need to get away from my flat for a bit. It’s nice. Next to the water and you can look across it and the lights of the city are all around you. A bit peaceful.”

“Sounds it,” Christian said. “Did you open your gift yet?”

“No,” Vincent said, as he made his way along the stone plaza and back toward the street. “You said not to.”

“Good,” Christian said.

“Should I call you when I get back home?”

On screen, Christian shrugged. “I don’t mind talking while you walk. We haven’t spoken in a while. It would be good to catch up.”

He switched the phone to audio for his walk. It wasn’t far between his house and the pier—not even a kilometre. Ten minutes walk if he took his time.

Christian filled him in on the struggles of Tottenham in the league table, Toby’s injury, how the team was trying to rally together and pick themselves up out of their slump. Contrasted with their wild success in the Champions League and the buzz of excitement around the training ground as each new challenge approached. Outright winners in a group drawn with Real Madrid and Dortmund—surpassing all expectations.

Vincent didn’t mind hearing about the team, of course. They were his friends. Still technically his club. That said. he had to admit some small pang of jealousy in his chest that all their success had come this year and not last. Triumph in Europe and a fight on the homefront, all taken on by a group of players that didn’t include him. He himself battling to win a league and bring a team to Europe, although with the admitted hope that he’d never reap the benefits of those efforts—at least not with this club.

Back to London in the summer, and if the two clubs met on the European stage he would wish his Fenerbahçe teammates well, shake their hands, return Roman’s vicious hugs, then stand on the other side, clad in white and navy, and play whatever role he was given to bring them to victory. Lights and sounds and smells of Istanbul a brief blip on the ever growing map of places he’d lived, London, he hoped, bringing him something more permanent for once in his life.

 

  

At his flat, Vincent waved and smiled at Orhan as he headed past him and up the stairs for the second time that night. Christian’s voice still in his ear, now moved on to updates on the World Cup draw. Vincent didn’t care, really. He wouldn’t be there. He’d be lying on a beach somewhere warm sipping wine and trying not to feel bitter and resentful.

He’d tune in of course. Watch his Spurs teammates battle it out now that Belgium and England had been drawn into the same group. Cheer and scream and try not to break his laptop or television as he watched Christian compete for Denmark. Wishing he could be there. Could lend support, even if he had to do it as a member of a rival club.

Instead, while Christian had carried his country on his back, Vincent had continued to trip and fall while trying to drag his across the finish line. Once heralded as the new, promising Dutch striker, the future of Dutch football. Now just another team he’d let down. A change in regime in the works and Vincent sometimes wondered if he’d see the _elftal_ again.

He’d missed the friendlies last month with injury and the team had scored four goals in two matches. Memphis, returned to his place in the starting lineup with Vincent’s absence, had scored two of them.

Vincent had managed two goals in the eight total matches he’d played during World Cup qualifying. His last goal in an _Oranje_ shirt six months ago now.

Even here in Istanbul where he’d come out to so much promise, he’d still only managed two goals in eleven matches. A new league and a new team and a new start, but he was starting to think he’d never escape his role as “failed striker” no matter where he went.

“I’m switching back to video,” he told Christian once he was back inside his flat with the door shut and latched behind him.

“Good,” Christian said, then “Actually, can you call me back on my laptop. The screen is bigger and you won’t have to try to hold the phone and open the box.”

Vincent shook his head with a smile. “You’re way too excited about this.”

“It’s a good gift.”

“What is this for, anyway?” Vincent asked as he stood to retrieve his laptop from where it was stashed in his small spare room.

“What do you mean, what is it for?” Christian asked.

“Exactly what I asked,” Vincent said. “It’s too early for a Christmas gift. It’s nowhere near my birthday. Our anniversary isn’t for a few months now, or was a month ago, depending on how you look at it. So…”

He pulled up his Skype and clicked on Christian’s name to start the video call. On the phone, the incoming call tone rang out and Christian said, “I’m hanging up. See you in a second.” before his face appeared in Vincent’s laptop screen.

“Hey again,” he said. “Vincent, do you not know what date it is today?”

Vincent narrowed his eyes and wrinkled his nose because now that he thought about it, no, he had no idea.

“I…don’t, actually,” he said. “Let’s see. It’s Tuesday and we have a match on Friday. Which is…”

He jabbed at his phone screen with one finger until it popped up the home screen. “Fifth of December?”

“Yes,” Christian said, his usually calm voice now laced with an edge of exasperation. “Fifth of December. Which is…?”

Vincent closed his eyes and tried to think. Fifth of December, and what had he and Christian been doing this time last year? Still not officially together, although they’d at least been talking about it by then, thank whatever higher power had been watching over him.

“I think you’re going to have to tell me,” he said.

Christian’s mouth open, slightly affronted at Vincent’s not knowing the significance of this seemingly arbitrary date.“You’re Dutch, though.”

“I’m…what does that have to do with it?” He narrowed his eyes at the screen. Dutch. Fifth of December, and, oh…that.

“You got me a _Sinterklaas_ gift?” Vincent asked, not bothering to keep the confusion from his voice.

 _Sinterklaas_ was the main gift-giving holiday in the Netherlands, but Vincent hadn’t celebrated in years—not since he’d left home for Rotterdam at fifteen. For one thing, it was rooted in some unspeakably offensive traditions that he’d stayed as far away from as possible as soon as he was old enough to understand them. The city around him caught up in parades and celebrations, but the holiday had grated on him and Vincent usually spent the night wishing he were anywhere but stuck in the middle of all of it.

For another, it was a holiday for children. Still believing the myth that somehow a man comes in the chimney and hides presents for you to find.

Yet here Christian was mailing him gifts to celebrate.

“How did you…why _Sinterklaas_?” Vincent asked

“Because I remembered you saying how much you’d loved it as a child. Getting the best gifts before Christmas. It seemed nice.”

Had he said that? When? And why?

“I…listen, don’t think I don’t appreciate the thought, but I actually don’t celebrate _Sinterklaas_ Unless it’s _pepernoten_. Then I won’t say no. The rest of it is just…it’s really offensive and ugly and…not a nice holiday. Sure we used to get gifts when we were kids, but now…”

On screen, Christian chewed at his lip. That face he made when he was looking for the words to smooth over some situation. More often than not, these days, one that Vincent had caused.

“I…” he started, voice careful and controlled, and Vincent hated that. Had learned that it meant Christian was angry or sad or upset and trying very hard not to let Vincent see.

“I didn’t know what your plans were for Christmas,” Christian continued after a beat, his voice still soft. All the excitement from earlier now tempered into a quiet calm, although Vincent could hear the disappointment creeping in at the edges.

“I wanted to give you a gift, but I didn’t want to send it on Christmas in case you weren’t home to receive it. I assumed you’d go back to see your family over your break, but I didn’t know where, so…”

“I can take it with me,” Vincent suggested. “Bring it along to Málaga and open it there. Unless it’s something embarrassing. It’s not, is it?”

“That’s a risk you’ll have to take on your own.”

His family knew about his relationship with Christian, of course. The two of them had stopped in to Amsterdam on holiday over the summer, then driven from the city out to Vincent’s family home, taking a few days to relax beside the pool before continuing on a holiday of beaches and sun.

Still, just because he didn’t have to keep the relationship a secret, that didn’t mean he needed to spend a week being ridiculed by his siblings for whatever overly sentimental gift Christian had sent him.

“Fine,” he said. “You win.”

He leaned over and lifted the box off the sofa beside him, holding it up to where Christian could see it before he settled it into his lap and lifted the flap to unseal the edge.

On screen, Christian’s smile had returned, eyes wide with expectation and excitement. Whatever this was, Christian certainly thought Vincent was going to love it.

Inside the box, his fingers caught on slick plastic. A bag of some sort. He grabbed at it and slid it towards him.

A clear plastic bag, sealed with a flap at one end. Inside, bright red fabric, neatly folded with a circular, white logo the front.

Vincent looked down at the bag in his hands, then squinted at the screen, “You got me a Denmark shirt?”

“Open it all the way up,” Christian said. “I promise it will make sense eventually.”

Vincent lifted the adhesive flap and slipped the shirt out onto his lap. Fabric cool and smooth against his hands, although the underside had ridges in it  where the designers had ruined an otherwise sharp and sleek kit by carving an outline of a viking into it.

He hoped his uncontrolled eye roll had been obscured from Christian’s view when he held up the shirt to examine it.

“This shirt is terrible,” Vincent said.

Christian let out a snort of protest, which Vincent ignored, then said, “Turn it around. The front is just regular.”

Vincent did as he’d been instructed, flipping the shirt over at his hands and staring at the back. It wasn’t much better than the front, really—bizarre font that made most of the players’ names nearly unreadable. This one no different. White lettering stark against the bright red background.

He blinked at the shirt for a few seconds. Staring. Processing. Taking it all in. Trying to understand what this was supposed to mean.

“Christian what the hell?”

“I got you a shirt.”

Vincent lowered the shirt to his lap so he could stare down at the screen. “I see that, but…I’m not Danish.”

“No. You’re not. But I am.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Vincent said. “None of this makes any sense. It’s a Denmark shirt, but it’s not your shirt. It’s…mine? Or, well, it has my name on it. But your number? Or mine? Although not your number, really, or my number but…”

He trailed off because he had no idea what he was supposed to make out of any of this. Christian so excited to give Vincent a shirt from this national team that he wasn’t a part of from a country he had no real ties to. Judging by the look on Christian’s face he’d expected a very different reaction from the one Vincent was having.

He wished he knew what sentimental gesture he was missing here. Because while Christian tended to miss the point more often than not where feelings and sweeping romance were concerned, when it came to small sentiments and symbolic moments their roles were usually reversed—Christian so good at these tiny, meaningful expressions of emotion that Vincent would never have picked up on in a million years.

“It’s my team,” Christian said, his voice soft and small. “And our number—twenty-three, the one we share. And I thought…you could wear it sometimes. Like, next summer when you watch the matches…you know…for the World Cup.”

Oh.

The words spilled out of him before he could stop them, and this wasn’t the way he’d been taught to receive a gift, but he couldn’t help it. Because maybe Christian had been trying for some kind of cute sentiment, but all Vincent had toward this World Cup was anger and resentment and disappointment.

Christian had bought him a shirt to wear while watching the World Cup. Because Vincent didn’t have his own. Wouldn’t be there wearing his own country’s colours, his own country’s crest over his heart.

Here’s something you can look at and remember your failure. Remember that this summer all your friends will be in Russia and you’ll be alone on the outside looking in at us, just like always.

“So…for Christmas you wanted to remind me that I’ll be spending my summer alone watching you play matches on the television. Yes, Christian, that’s a lovely gift.” His tone biting and bitter, and Christian deserved better, but Vincent wasn’t sure he had better to give.

On the screen, Christian’s face fell. His mouth turning down at the corners ever so slightly. His eyes narrowing just a fraction. Careful and controlled, as usual, but Vincent knew him too well. His words had stung. He hadn’t meant them to, but he also wasn’t sure he was sorry they had.

“I…” Christian started, then stopped. Chewing at his bottom lip again. Ordinarily that made Vincent long wrap Christian in his arms and kiss away whatever was worrying him.

Only this time it was Vincent doing the worrying and he wasn’t sure he had any words of comfort to give.

Sure, he was happy for Christian. For his Spurs teammates and their respective National Teams. The majority of the first team squad spending their summer in Russia. Competing at the highest level. Representing their countries on the world’s stage.

But he was also glad to be away from it all. The first time he’d been happy to be sequestered here in Turkey where most of his teammates weren’t World Cup bound either. The buzz around their shared meals more about training and the upcoming winter break instead of National Teams and preparations for Russia. Vincent had escaped that, at least. One bright spot in his exile on the other side of the continent.

Christian ducked his head, lowering his eyes, and no one made Christian look that way. Except that Vincent had. Christian had given him a gift that was obviously supposed to be meaningful and here Vincent was acting like a complete arsehole about it.

“I’m sorry,” Christian said at the same time he did, and they both frowned at the screen, waiting for the other to speak.

Vincent broke the silence first. “I…you gave me a gift. I should have said thank you. Whatever else this is, it’s something to remind me of you and I don’t want you to think I don’t appreciate that, but…”

“I didn’t think,” Christian said. “I just…I know you’re upset about the World Cup and missing out and…I wanted you to be a part of it.”

“I’m not though, am I?” Vincent said, his words harsh and cutting once again. “I mean, I can wear this kit with my name and number on it in colours that aren’t my own, but it doesn’t change anything. You’ll still be there leading your country to glory and I’ll be on a beach somewhere wishing I were with you. You’re so good, Christian, and I’m just…”

“Vincent.” Christian’s voice soft and soothing. Tones of pity hovering just beneath the surface. Everyone always approaching him like he were made of glass, ready to shatter at the slightest touch.

“Don’t, Chris,” he said. “Just…”

“No, that’s not…I’m not…there’s another piece to the gift.”

Vincent stuck his hand back into the box, feeling around for anything that might have gotten stuck, but he came up with nothing.

“There’s nothing else here, Chris.”

“No,” Christian said, shaking his head. “I just sent it. I wanted to wait until you’d opened this one.”

“You…what?”

A second later Vincent’s phone chimed, letting him know he had a new email.

“Open it,” Christian said.

Vincent grabbed for his phone and flicked at the screen, clicking on the new email notification with Christian’s name displayed in the sender line.

The screen filled with a forwarded message, some kind of official logo at the top. He squinted down at it, his brain trying to process the words.

“This is…a hotel reservation?”

“Yes,” Christian said. “Tenth of June until the Sixteenth of July.”

“In…oh…” Vincent said.

“It’s not the nicest hotel,” Christian said. “I wish I could have gotten you a better one, but…it’s nearby where we’re staying as our home base. I can’t promise I’ll be around much, of course. We’ll be traveling to matches and in training most of the time. But…I thought…”

“You got me a hotel in Russia for the summer. And a Denmark shirt with my name on it.”

“To come watch. The World Cup. I don’t know when I can get tickets to the matches, but as soon as I’m able…”

Vincent tried, and failed, as usual, to keep the wide grin from taking over his face. “Christian this is…really over the top.”

Christian’s face sobered slightly before Vincent continued, “…and absolutely the most thoughtful gift I’ve ever gotten.”

“So, you’ll come?” Christian asked. As if there were ever any doubt. As if Vincent wouldn’t go anywhere in the entire world just because Christian asked him to.

“Don’t you think it’s going to look a bit weird when I show up at a match with someone else’s number and my name on the kit?”

his time it was Christian’s turn to laugh. “Sisto will get over it. Probably. Besides, it’s not your number, it’s our number. Anyway, I had it first.”

“ _Jij bent een gek_. But…I love you.” Vincent said, desperately trying to keep his face serious as he fixed his eyes on Christian’s. “Although…couldn’t you have also sent along some _pepernoten_ , at least?””

Christian’s laugh sweet and musical in Vincent’s ears. “I love you, too. _Prettige Sinterklaas_ , Vincent. Sorry it got sort of mixed up and complicated.”

“It wouldn’t be us if it didn’t, “ Vincent said.

“Yeah,” Christian replied. “Have a good Christmas. If we don’t get a chance to speak before.”

Vincent returned the shy smile Christian was giving him. As though this were still something secret and precious. Schoolboy crushes and stolen kisses when no one was looking. And maybe it was, now that he thought about it.

“I think we will,” he said. “In fact, I’ll make sure of it.”

**Author's Note:**

> As I said on Tumblr, a person could get used to this "get a fic idea on Saturday, write it on Sunday, revise it on Monday, post it on Tuesday" cycle of writing. If I were you, I wouldn't, however.
> 
> This fic is supposed to be the precursor to a longer work, which I still hope to have done before the end of this Winter Fic Challenge, but I wanted to get this one out to all of you and up so that I've at least contributed something.
> 
> And hey...my first fic for this pairing that managed to hold itself to below 5k words! A success truly worthy of celebration.
> 
>  
> 
> _Prettige Sinterklaas, iedereen. Ik hoop dat je mijn verhaal leuk vond._


End file.
